The Extensive Consequences of a Failed Experiment
by Silberias
Summary: Holmes wanted only to test a hypothesis, to ensure that his guess was the right one. 120 years later a man who claimed Holmes as namesake would deduce the family lineage in less than an hour. RDJ/SH, BC/SH, and Iron Man triple crossover, no real slash.
1. Chapter 1

**First off, I AM SO SORRY FOR THE A/N NOVELLA HERE ABOVE THE CUT!**

Now, this is a crossover. This is actually a triple crossover between the RobertDowneyJr!Sherlock Holmes, the BenedictCumberbatch!Sherlock Holmes, and Iron Man. Because I have a running challenge to my friends that I can fanfic anything, and this is the proof of that, I would suppose. This is actually a scream to write, and I love it dearly. But, please, do tell me if you see anything that disagrees with your fanfic digestion, because this is the first crossover I've ever written and taken myself truly seriously while doing it.

And now a few warnings that _will not_ be repeated in later chapters so you'd best get them now. **THIS IS IMPORTANT AND IS PROBABLY THE ONLY AUTHOR'S NOTE.**

Both of my Sherlock Holmes' are asexual. Having sex does not, in my interpretation, make either of the Sherlocks magically fall in love with sex _*cue googly eyes* **WIF DAT SPESHUL PERSON WHO LUUUURVES**_** THEM**. They do not magically find that they are not so asexual after screwing so and so. There is no "finding the right person," in their lives. They are asexual and do not enjoy engaging in the activity, nor do they find it necessary to being a complete person. Please deal with that and read another fic if that bothers you, because the most sex there is in this story is going to be in this chapter right here. After that you're not going to get any.

Also: Tony Stark's great-grandfather is RDJSherlock Holmes, while RDJ-SH is BC-SH's great-great-grandfather. This is because I'm sticking with the timeline which was created for the Stark family with the events established in Captain America: The First Avenger. Howard Stark was a young enough man in the mid-40s that he was still able to have a child in the late 60s, which means that he would have been born at around the same time that his cousin, BC-SH's grandfather, would have been. But my bullshit alarms were already going off with "Twenty to thirtysomething in 1943, still able to father a child in 1960 or 1970something," so because I wasn't fettered by timeline on BC-SH's lineage I stuck in another generation. Yes.

Also: timelines are hard, I know. I'm going to break this story up into "Only modern SH timeline," and "RDJ to BC-SH lineage," and will indicate these at the beginning of each chapter.

Lastly: I've been reliably told by my beta that my BC-SH is not really very likable which was meant as a constructive criticism which I'm having trouble wrapping my head around because I just wrote him as I saw him. My Sherlolly affection is also going to be showing through, but also the slashy preferences of my beta and my pre-reader (Bosslady River and Babette). Please feel free to rant about your feelings on the subject in a review, I'd love to know what I'm doing wrong that hits so many alarm bells in their minds.

That about covers it, I think. Maybe. **REMEMBER: PROBABLY NOT ANOTHER AUTHOR'S NOTE LATER ON, SO READ IT HERE, ABOVE, BEFORE YOU START. DON'T COME BACK WHINING THAT YOU GOT CONFUSED.  
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Updates will be every Thursday until it is completed. (5/24/12)**  
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**_So_**, without further ado,

Enjoy!

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**1892, Sherlock Holmes (I)**

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It had been little more than an experiment, a few weeks after his 'last case,' with Doctor Watson concluded with Lord Blackwood's _real_ death. Mostly to see if there was some way he could eek out a 'life,' with a _relationship_ complete with physical affection. He'd long ago deduced what was wrong with his dear Doctor Watson—a tragically repressed attraction to dangerous men, and to women made of steel and manipulation. It was perfectly boring, and Sherlock had soon wanted to deduce himself, to find out what _he_ wanted. Irene had been most obliging, she, being, of course, the only person on Earth who he could possibly see himself eeking out a passably normal _relationship_ with. He much preferred being alone—in fact, he knew that he quite enjoyed going without physical stimulations for months or even years, save for those of the mind—with a trusted few close by but never quite touching. Doctor Watson was the closest he'd allowed anyone in years, after Irene.

And the good Doctor was soon to be married—the Fall after this coming one, a perfectly awful time to marry, of course, but it was what the man wanted. A good long engagement to Miss Mary Morton or whatever her name was. He knew he very well could not expect that the Doctor would be willing to assist him in this experiment, but that Irene would. She was smarter than he was, on some days, and that intrigued him and gave him a strange, irrational hope that perhaps for once he and Watson were both wrong in their deductions that Sherlock Holmes would die alone.

The experiment had been a miserable failure. To be sure, Irene had been pleasant about it, even sympathetic as he struggled to understand the basics and grasp at mastery in just a few short days. She had teased him relentlessly, and it was only when she was being particularly snarky that he found any pleasure in the acts at all—debating with her took his mind off of the distasteful chore he'd set out to learn. He could perform of course—to a modicum of success—but could only watch at an impossible distance as Irene would gasp and curl and arch against him. She had left him, on that Sunday morning, with a kiss and a "We will have to practice later, Sherlock."

It was ten months before he saw her again, looking well but worried. Something in him had twisted at the thought that Irene, who was brilliant, was afraid. He'd known who she was afraid of, she helped Sherlock whenever she could to derail Moriarty's plans. Things had also happened in her absence—she'd briefly been a mother, and briefly married to an American man named Stark. They'd adopted a son together apparently, from what the papers said about it. Stark had gotten the infant in the divorce proceedings, and Irene had gotten a third of his estate. Sherlock rather thought that Irene had gotten the better end of the deal. She hadn't lived long to enjoy it, however, because before Watson had managed to marry himself off—in a desperate attempt to escape 221B and Sherlock permanently—Irene was dead.

Moriarty was methodical in getting rid of the people closest to Sherlock, who was only glad that Irene's tiny adopted son was far, far away from the man. He would perhaps have to see to that child's safety, but not before he secured that of Doctor and Mrs. John Watson. They were all he had left, after Irene's death—after Irene's _murder_.

In the next few weeks—really just two weeks had passed?—he hadn't been able to give a single thought to Irene other than the last one on the steamboat across the channel to France. He hadn't even stood long enough to watch her monogrammed kerchief fall to the sea—it was far too painful. He had been open and weak to Irene more times than he'd like to admit, and her loss was a great blow to him—probably far greater than Moriarty gave credit to, if he was very honest with himself.

After surviving his fall from the chateau in Switzerland, he had also been more concerned with taking out Moriarty's last few contacts who apparently had orders to make Doctor and Mrs. John Watson's lives difficult. There were none who were to make trouble for Mr. Arnold Stark or his toddling son, and for that Sherlock was glad. Irene had never done anything vaguely attachment-y with any of her husbands, and that made Arnold Stark speci—

The math had come quickly to Sherlock after that—they had had a date set for tea several weeks after that unpleasant weekend of learning, and Irene had sent a note pleading sickness. She had just returned from a brief visit to France and so Sherlock had thought nothing of it. After that she had quickly gone to America and married yet another brilliantly rich man and had stayed out of the limelight of his fame for several months before it was announced that Mr. and Mrs. Arnold Stark had adopted a son, naming him Carlton Stark. After another few months, the family released a photo of the new parents and their son. A son who was the spitting image of a daguerreotype of Sherlock himself as an infant sitting in his mother's lap.

Sherlock felt no sudden pangs of paternal regrets or anything of the like—it was certainly not his fault that Irene had not told him or included him or the rest of it. She had obviously arranged a good home for the child to grow up in, one with money and support, and understanding. Unless Mr. Stark was a blithering idiot of the highest kind—and the sharp expressions in his photos did not lead Sherlock to believe this—he had to have known Irene was carrying a child and married her despite it. Even after her death, Irene was brilliant. However, Sherlock did want to assure himself that his child would grow up as it should.

So the last thing he did before permanently returning to England—with a hell of a plan to scare the daylights out of Watson, it was just _perfect_—was to visit New York to meet Mr. Stark and the young Carlton Stark who was just a year old now. When he knocked the doorman took one look at him before nodding him in.

"Mrs. Stark said that sooner or later you would show up, please follow me to the drawing room and Mr. Stark and his son will be along shortly," the old man said—he rather reminded Sherlock of Stanley, at home. Left to his own devices he quickly deduced half of the things Stark would wish to tell him when he arrived simply from the desk and the arrangement of the chairs. Letters addressed to American lawyers and British solicitors, applications in various piles from women hoping to nanny the child of the divorced Mr. Stark, two chairs one new to the room and one an original occupant—facing one another, set away from the desk. So, it was to be business, and the discussion of financial care for the child. It seemed that Irene still had standards after she'd left—intelligence, directness.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes, so good to meet you. This is my Carlton, and this," Sherlock turned round to look at the middle aged Arnold Stark who was accompanied by a maid, "Is Phineas, who is yours." In the maid's arms was a dark haired little boy who stared back at Sherlock in a steady way which Sherlock found reassuring, despite the hand the child had stuffed half-way down it's throat. Of course, of course of course—twins ran in Irene's family, it was how she had first come to his attention. Irene and Rudolf Adler had been partners in crime for nearly ten years, until he had gone to some eastern European country and gotten married and settled down. Irene had conceived with twins, with two boys who looked nothing alike—one took after him, and the other after Irene. It was also obvious, seeing him in person, that Stark was not in the kind of health that would lend itself to fathering a child, was actually likely impotent—Irene had probably seen that as well and offered him an heir for his empire. Sherlock nodded, knowing that his lips were twitching—not knowing to smile or frown—and strode across the room to his host.

"Phineas? A fine name, might I hold him?" Sherlock prided himself on being unflappable, and this was a shining moment of such ability. The maid handed over the little boy who had Irene's large blue eyes, settling the heavy child into Sherlock's arms. Phineas quickly nosed all around Sherlock, taking in the scents of his recent adventures, and grasping all around at his shirt and jacket—getting a feel of who this man was. Sherlock didn't immediately fall in love with the boy, but he knew right then that this child might well be his greatest experiment. Perhaps he could bully Mrs. Watson or Mrs. Hudson into looking after Phineas from time to time, even.

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	2. Chapter 2

Forgot to mention last time, chapters will be often quite a bit shorter than Chapter 1 so please bear with me. I also couldn't wait to post this, so out with the updating schedule! Look for an update on Monday or so, I think. (5/25/12)

Enjoy!

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**2010, Pepper Potts & Mycroft Holmes (II)**

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Pepper Potts liked coming to England. She always made sure to do a few fun things when she travelled abroad. Mostly touristy things, and she always made excellent business deals that Tony could never fault her for. It was the highest form of praise he could give, of not faulting you for what you did. This particular trip was more secret than most, as she was involved in a delicate contract which was slightly more under the table than either she or Tony liked, but there was nothing for it. Mycroft Holmes, at least, was a pleasant enough man to deal with. She'd never met him in person, but his correspondence through phone calls and email was nice—concise, to the point, and intelligent. Pepper didn't like to be surrounded by idiots, and neither did Mycroft Holmes.

She was excited to meet him, she decided as she was led far into the building to Mr. Holmes' office. He wasn't in, at first, and so she sat down primly until the assistant left the room. Pepper looked around, trying to see everything about Mr. Holmes before he arrived—the art a person collected and displayed was often a key to their personality. For instance, Tony could care less about Jackson Pollock, but he wanted to own as much of the man's work as possible—because it was pricy and expensively ugly to others. So Pepper wanted to see what kind of art Mr. Holmes wanted to show off.

Family photos were the ticket, today, it seemed. There were recent, nice photos of a forgettably brown-haired man with another man who had curly black hair and eyes which were not so much blue as they were gray. Another with the same two men, a bit younger with an older couple—their parents, it would seem. After that a grainy, discolored photo of the same man and wife, much younger, with two young boys. The dark haired one was clutching fiercely to a pirate hat, while the brunette appeared as studiously boring as possible.

A few more formal photos of Mycroft Holmes' father (she didn't know which one she would be dealing with, but by the severity of this office it was likely the brunette) at younger ages, as well as a wedding picture in black and white that looked like it was from the late thirties. The man in it looked as though he and Tony had the same ideas about hair care, but Pepper soon looked past that photo to another one, featuring the same man in his teens with a much older woman at his side—his mother?

There were another two photos on the mantelpiece, one of a man who had washed out eyes—probably a fierce blue, lost to the black and white of the photo—and fiercely curly hair and a young woman. Another wedding picture, then. But it was the man standing behind him, one hand on the younger man's shoulder, who startled Pepper. That man looked as though he could have been Tony in fifteen years. Which brought her attention to the last photograph on the mantel before actual paintings started to be hung above the photographs.

The man in the last photo was the spitting image of Tony Stark.

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	3. Chapter 3

**1910-1914, Phineas Holmes, Sherlock Holmes (I)**

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Phineas wondered sometimes if his father understood human relationships _at all_. Aunt Mary claimed that he did what he could, while Uncle Mycroft gave him a puzzled stare when he brought it up. Nana Hudson would sigh and shake her head. The latest difficulty was his father's inability to grasp the importance of getting married to Anita Caldwell—that she was not someone to be analyzed and picked apart and deduced. It also bothered him that his father gave him so little credit as to think that Phineas himself hadn't already analyzed and picked apart and deduced Anita.

True, his father Sherlock did understand Phineas' love for the woman to a certain extent—Uncle John said that Sherlock had loved Phineas' mother very much indeed, to have even engaged in the activity which had led to Phineas' birth. He couldn't fault his uncle's assessment, because in his twenty years he had never seen his father look twice at a woman—or even a man—the way that he would gaze at a certain unnamed photograph in his study. The woman was beautiful, and it was obvious she was his mother from the shape of her mouth and eyes, but Sherlock never once mentioned her name.

Phineas sometimes wished he knew her name, knew of how she had died so shortly after his birth—the only thing he had pried out of his father about her death was that she had not died of childbirth or sickness. That only left suicide or murder, and his father was wistful in recollecting her rather than forlorn which pointed to murder. Not even Uncle John would speak to him of it, although it was obvious that her death had not been a peaceful one from Uncle John's body language, and that she had not led a docile life if the great Sherlock Holmes had been captivated by her. Aunt Mary claimed to have never known The Woman, as Phineas referred to her in his mind. Nana Hudson petted at his hair and smoothed her old, wrinkled hands against his cheeks and said that his mother would be proud of his adventures, as The Woman had been an adventuress herself.

It was important, therefore, that he marry Anita Caldwell because Anita was perfectly boring. She was smart, had a great understanding of the world around her, but a nice unwillingness to learn of the machinations which made that world work. She might not be his ideal choice—a woman with enough fire in her to catch his full and complete attention would, of course, be as unsuitable to him as The Woman had been to his father—but she would at least survive. Boring people, unnoticed people, were never high on the hit-lists made by the enemies of smart, high profile people. At least, if they were they weren't _murdered_.

Phineas fully planned on living the boring domestic life which Uncle John had so taken to, with only a side of the adventures his father had introduced to him at a young age. He also hoped to live a long happy life with Anita, and to take care of his father in his advancing age—the man would be sixty in five years, and his long and brutally active life was catching up with him. Unfortunately, Phineas never got the opportunity.

Five years after their marriage, and only shortly after he and Anita found that they were to be parents, war had broken out on the continent. Before the next year was out, Phineas Holmes was dead—fodder for a machine gun—leaving Anita Holmes to raise his son Albert and to look after his aging father Sherlock.

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	4. Chapter 4

**2010, Pepper Potts and Mycroft Holmes (II)**

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"Ah, Miss Potts, so good of you to come," Mycroft Holmes' soft voice sounded behind her, and Pepper turned around fast and guilty—she had meant to sit down after inspecting the photographs and paintings but it was not to be. The man across the room from her was the boring brunette—he was smart and cunning, she could tell, but didn't advertise that to the world at large because the world frankly didn't need to know—who was smiling in a faintly disturbing way.

"Mr. Holmes, it is good to meet you in person finally. I was just admiring the family photos you have collected here." He turned his focus to the pictures behind her, managing to look even more bored than before.

"Yes, my mother insists that I keep them up to remind myself of the great service the family has done for the country in the past. It is more to keep them away from my brother, Sherlock, who cannot be trusted with such old, valuable things. You seemed quite fascinated though, would you like a history of some of the sitters?"

"No—no, I…" she decided to go for it, "I couldn't help but notice that one of your ancestors looks a great deal like Tony—Mr. Stark. Would you mind-?"

"Really? I confess I've never much looked at them after I had Anthea arrange them chronologically," Mycroft stepped forward and leaned in to sternly gaze at the photo which Pepper showed him. His eyebrows raised just a hair and his mouth turned down into a frown.

"I believe I agree with you, Miss Potts, let me call my brother and set him to finding out the truth. We have a meeting which I fear has been made late enough already," he said as he took out a phone and rapidly searched for a number. He found it in moments and put it to his ear, speaking in clipped tones to the person on the other end.

"Doctor Watson, good of you to answer so quickly. Yes. Yes. No. Please ask my brother to do a small favor for me. No. No, of course. Yes. I need him to look up everything he can on great-great-grandfather Sherlock, I believe it was once a point of fascination to him that he is named after—yes. Please, thank you Doctor Watson, yes that will be all." With a snap the phone was closed and Mycroft smiled with only his mouth—not an open grin like Tony had when he was satisfied like a cat who found his way into an aviary for birds with clipped wings. Pepper smiled hesitantly back at him, suddenly hoping that they'd make at least a little money from this deal.

"Now, we have a meeting to conduct, do we not, Miss Potts?"

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	5. Chapter 5

**1932-1940s, Albert Holmes and Sherlock Holmes (I)**

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Albert Holmes had never known his father, although it was obvious that Phineas had been much loved and was much missed. His mother Anita did her best, but often left Albert in the care of Grandfather. Anita was unable to cope that such a rational man, such an intelligent and bright man as Phineas Holmes had been cut down in less than a second. There was, however, a haunted resignation in Grandfather's eyes which made it easier for him to look after Albert than it was for her. Grandfather still believed in rationality, still believed in facts and deductions, and helped Albert learn the same habits where he could.

His mother died of a heart condition in 1932, when he was seventeen. Grandfather, who was nearing eighty, had clucked his tongue and murmured that it was just heartbreak. The man was nearly blind by that time, a condition which he hated fiercely, and spent most of his days in their flat. Albert took care of him and sat with him at the window, telling him every detail of every passing stranger—marveling at how Grandfather was able to identify the color of a woman's hat by the cut of her dress and height of her hair. The old man didn't speak to him of days gone by, preferring to badger Albert with questions and queries. Albert didn't mind, knowing that Grandfather had few of his old friends and acquaintances left alive. He'd had a brother who had passed away some years ago, as well as an old colleague who had died when Albert was nine. Doctor Watson's son was the man who looked after Albert when Grandfather was feeling too tired or poorly to attend to him.

"You are a good grandson, Albert, I am glad I have gotten to know you," Grandfather whispered one day in 1938, almost dozing as he sat by the window and tried to deduce the world outside from just the sounds he heard. Albert wished that the old man wouldn't do such things, because the world outside was a grim and dark one.

"Grandfather…"

"Albert, I averted a world-war once and I lived through another in my middle old age. There will be another yet before I pass, do not fret that I am lamenting the world we live in," came the reply from the old man, "I am celebrating the fact that despite my son's death, there is still a bright, smart light in a world that I am too old to explore and protect."

They sat in quiet silence for most of the rest of the afternoon. Albert went to get a paper to read aloud—Grandfather's voice bordered between jovial and bored as he stated the answers to every scandal and mystery therein—and Grandfather dozed off and on. The twenty three year old believed he was getting better at omitting headlines—the old man was completely blind now—because he hadn't been caught at it even once today.

"You should work on getting married sooner than later, Albert. If today's headlines have any truth to them there will be war within a year I wager—and you know how terribly good I am at that—and all the young women will be getting married to men they'll never see again. After that all of the good ones will be gone." Needless to say, Albert was happily married in less than a year. He never asked his grandfather what he'd meant by "good ones," but old Mrs. Watson had informed him that that probably meant 'eccentric or devious,' to 'Sherlock.' Albert couldn't imagine calling the old man _Sherlock_, as Grandfather was too emotionally closed off in recent years to ever warm to allowing Albert to call him by his first name.

When war broke out, Albert volunteered for the intelligence service—he had no desire to break Grandfather's heart by getting shot up within months of enlisting, as his father Phineas had, and he had no desire to come back to his wife Sylvia a nervous wreck. The last time Grandfather claimed to have been able to see him was in July of 1935, but the last time Albert saw his grandfather Sherlock Holmes was in 1940. Sherlock died of a heart attack—a murmur which had been present in his heart for fifty years—when Albert was away, called to try to decode messages intercepted from the Germans. Sylvia, who had greatly liked Albert's grandfather, wanted to name their first child after the man but Albert had refused. At the time he had been under a great amount of stress and unable to cope with the loss of the old, cranky and brilliant detective. They'd named their son Aaron, after Sylvia's grandfather, and with two daughters later on there was no opportunity to rectify the matter.

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	6. Chapter 6

**2010, John Watson (no relation) and Sherlock Holmes (II)**

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"That was your brother. Wants you to throw yourself at genealogy—something about your great—"

"—-great-grandfather Sherlock, I would imagine, yes? Boring, solved it years ago. Asexual, manic-depressive, high-functioning sociopath like myself, one adopted son who died in World War I, died alone in his bed while his grandson's wife was volunteering at a hospital. Why does Mycroft want to know?"

Recovering his wits from the fast list Sherlock had spit out, John cast about for details from the scant conversation he'd had with Mycroft.

"There was…no sound around him, so he was by himself—probably in his office, that place is like a cavern—but he said last week that someone from Stark Industries was coming to negotiate a deal that he had to personally take care of. So he keeps family…photographs in his office….and maybe they got…curious." John paused from time to time to stare, agog, at Sherlock who was quickly wakening, almost as if he'd gotten a shot of life into his veins, something that caused him to sit up and take notice. He kept quiet, though, which meant that he was no longer listening, he was thinking. John could already see the wheels flying to life as the engine of Sherlock's brain fired into gear.

"Oh of course, I can see it. That would mean that…yes. The Woman went to America and…oh, of course! Oh Mummy will be so thrilled that she can finally put that picture up and…yes!" Sherlock was standing now, poised to almost jump up in the air or go careening around the flat, "Don't you see it, John?"

"Sherlock, I'm afraid that I don't follow your excitement. Would you mind elucidating what great mystery you've managed to solve?" At this Sherlock settled into his chair like a cat, satisfied after eating a nest of baby canaries and awaiting the mother's return with eager claws. John wondered if he ought to brace himself with something, tea perhaps to calm his nerves later on. Sherlock didn't give him time to decide, though, choosing to charge into the problem forthwith.

"I need to borrow your laptop, immediately." John shook his head and handed the computer over to his flatmate. He bent over Sherlock's shoulder and looked at the screen as the dark haired man moused around frantically. Sherlock's eyes had already been glazed with a discovery before he quickly opened up the browser and found a newspaper archive—John frowned, feeling that the digital age was moving just a little faster than he really wanted it to. This was something normally done by relentlessly sifting through microfiche, not a simple internet search. The year **1892** brought up interesting headlines and front page articles—_SHERLOCK HOLMES ALIVE AND WELL, _and others like _HOLMES A FATHER? SHERLOCK HOLMES SEEN WITH TODDLER_. Sherlock in 2010 growled and retooled his search for **1891**.

_HAWAIIAN PRINCESS BECOMES QUEEN—THE END OF 1887 CONSTITUTION?_

_LONDONERS NOW ABLE TO TELEPHONE PARISIANS!_

_CAVENDISH-BENTNICK PASSES PEACEFULLY, AGE 69_

**1890**, and another murmur of discontent from Sherlock.

December. _SHERLOCK HOLMES HONORED BY SCOTLAND YARD_

October. _SHERLOCK HOLMES MISSING, PRESUMED DEAD AFTER FALL FROM CHANNEL STEAMBOAT_

October. _PROFESSOR JAMES MORIARTY MISSING AFTER PRESIDING OVER SUCCESSFUL SWISS PEACE SUMMIT_

August. _UNREST IN EUROPE—ANARCHISTS IN STRAUSBURG_

March. _AMERICAN MANUFACTURING MOGUL LOSES THIRD OF ASSETS IN MESSY DIVORCE—BRITISH MARKETS POUNCE_

"I…I didn't know your family had past associations with Scotland Yard."

"Mm, they don't let just anyone poke about—did you think I came to the Yard and told them to listen to me? Come now, even Anderson isn't that stupid," John got the distinct impression that Sherlock was deeply disappointed in him. Or was teasing him, it was difficult to tell. "The family has always helped out once in a while, I'm just the first one in decades that they've gotten any use out of really. More like I'm the first person in four generations to approach the deductive power of the original Sherlock Holmes."

**1889**.

December. _AMERICAN MANUFACTURING MOGUL ARNOLD STARK TO DIVORCE WIFE, IRENE STARK (NEE ADLER)_

October. _"A NEW DIRECTION," PROMISES BUILDER OF BLACKWALL FLATS IN WHITECHAPEL_

June. _PROUD PARENTS, ARNOLD AND IRENE STARK TO ADOPT_

May. _LORD COWARD DIES MYSTERIOUSLY IN PRISON—A NEW BLACKWOOD?_

February. _LORD COWARD PLEADS INNOCENT TO CONSPIRACY TO COMMIT TREASON_

"But you said that you invente—"

"Yes, and I did! My great-great-grandfather was awarded a permanent stipend by the Queen for _services rendered above all measure of gratitude_ which made him a rich man who did not have to work, which means that every case he handled after that was even more on a strictly volunteer basis. I am an on-call consulting detective, my great-great-grandfather was no such thing." Sherlock's words were rapid, upset even, but his eyes never left the screen and he never stopped scrolling through the archives laid out in front of him. Trust Sherlock to make such a hairline distinction—his namesake hadn't put his profession on his taxes, therefore it was not a profession and therefore a hobby.

**1888**.

November. _LORD BLACKWOOD FINALLY DEAD, HANGED PROPERLY THIS TIME_

Sherlock scrolled a little more before heaving a sigh and giving the laptop back to John. The doctor mutely took the computer back and closed it, not even glancing at the headline or the accompanying photo (May. _SERIAL MURDERER APPREHENDED BY SHERLOCK HOLMES AND SCOTLAND YARD_ _Sherlock Holmes, acting as an assistant to Scotland Yard with his colleague Doctor John Watson, heroically saved the life of…_). Sherlock's eyes were once again fixed on the ceiling.

"Phone, please."

John got up, found the damned thing, and gave it to his flatmate. Sherlock quickly texted a few things to whoever he needed to before setting the phone down on his chest, steepling his fingers in thought. John watched him silently, hoping that whatever Sherlock was planning over the next few hours, it wouldn't interfere with his date. Sarah was a rare woman, willing to put up with him and more importantly willing to put up with his flatmate. It was even more boggling that Sherlock tolerated her at all, which only meant that John worked all the harder to stay with her. He didn't want to think about how many other women would throw their drink at Sherlock and refuse to see John ever again.

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	7. Chapter 7

**2004, Aaron Holmes and Sherlock Holmes (II)**

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Aaron Holmes grew up quietly in his father's shadow. His father had been one of the chief code-breakers of the Empire during the war, and later helped to found several secret organizations to help keep order around the world. They both knew that Aaron's mother wasn't quite the mothering type. She was fiery willed and free-spirited, good traits in a woman, but not so much ones which made a good mother in Albert's opinion. So Aaron accompanied his father to many secret meetings, riding on his father's coattails—almost literally—into the higher branches of one the more secret organizations that Albert Holmes had founded. Anonymously, of course.

There was family history associated with his name, with all of their names, and when he finally married—a woman he met at work, a woman who he never knew the real name of—and settled to have children he knew what he would name them. Since it would be easiest to do what his father had done, Aaron decided that his firstborn would follow him into the service for the Queen. He looked to the first Holmes who served the Queen—Mycroft, a strange name then and a stranger one now—for inspiration. When his wife, who was going _Mary _that week, informed him not a few years later that he was once again to be a father it had seemed only right to name the child after Mycroft's younger brother, Sherlock, if they had a boy. Hopefully the child would take after his namesake and have an exceptionally successful career in Aaron's office. The gamble had nearly paid off. Sherlock was one of the smartest people that Aaron knew, and he made it his _business_ to know the smartest minds in the country.

He of course lamented that his son couldn't catch a break. Sherlock had spent his childhood alone, fighting with Mycroft and other boys, his teenage years stuck in a purgatory of having the smarts but not the age to back them up. The worst blow was that before Aaron could recruit him to the office, Sherlock turned to several fierce drug addictions that lasted through his twenties. Aaron and even old Albert had repeatedly tried to coax him into the service of the Queen, but that had seemed to be physically repulsive to Sherlock. His son claimed that he was already bereft of compassion and personality, that he didn't need to further exorcise what little was left of his soul—language which neither Aaron nor Albert had taught him, which cast a suspicious glance towards Aaron's wife who doted on her sons deeply. The only named that had ever stuck on his wife was the one given to her by Mycroft and adopted by Sherlock: Mummy.

Although when questioned, Sherlock always demurred, saying that Mummy had nothing to do with his decision or his revulsion. Aaron and Albert could do nothing to sway him, and pressing Mycroft to bully him was akin to driving wrong-way on the M-4—doable, but highly dangerous with severe repercussions for the driver. Mycroft saved his fights with Sherlock for his own business, and his territorial nature forced all other competitors out. Mycroft had taken an odd glee, several years ago, in helping Sherlock cut most of his acquaintances out of his life. Even Aaron had been booted to the kerb, and now the only thing he ever knew about Sherlock was that he was alive.

Aaron sometimes wondered just what went on in his son Sherlock's mind, who his friends were if he had any, who he loved if he loved. The estrangement from much of the family had come after Sherlock had decided to go cold turkey on his drug addictions. He had moved out and away, and only Mycroft knew where he lived. The only people that Sherlock hadn't cut out of his life entirely were his mother and his brother. The decision to get clean was a relieving one for Aaron, who tried later to figure out what had caused it. It was as though something had snapped in his frustrated, unhappy son.

It was as though it dawned on Sherlock that he was _thirty_. That he was thirty and that people would _listen _to him now because he was bloody _thirty_. These days, Aaaron knew that after this realization Sherlock had become cold and distant towards most of his family—he was still warm towards _Mummy_, and half-way civil towards Mycroft but he cut the rest of them out. Aaron's two sisters, their spouses and children, his old class chums, everyone. Sherlock had worked for two years to completely fight off the demons of his twenties, sending tips and letters to the police during that time until one day a DI, Lestrade if Aaron remembered right, had put it together that all of the tips were coming from the same person. And given that person, Sherlock, a call back. That had been the advent of the Consulting Detective.

Well, it kept the boy out of trouble for the most part.

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	8. Chapter 8

**2010, Pepper Potts and Molly Hooper.**

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After their meeting, Mycroft had them driven to a hospital where his brother Sherlock did most of his work. The man would show up sooner or later, Mycroft said with a smile, and it would be best to allow him to come to them rather than the other way 'round. Pepper got the distinct impression that the last time Mycroft had seen Sherlock was when something had been lobbed at the plump, boring brother and that Mycroft was minimizing the amount of things that could be thrown at him. Tony threw enough things when he was madly upset that she knew the feel of a stake-out, of choosing the right ground to be on when the fight started. Probably the only person who knew Tony's temper better than her was Rhodey, who had a perversely gleeful habit of trying to provoke the man's ire. Both of them tried to control the volatile genius as best they could in their own ways.

The hospital was a college as well, it seemed. A place where young doctors came to become better doctors. Mycroft guided her effortlessly through the halls, taking her away from patient-access locations to labs where there were access codes to get in and out of them. Pepper resisted asking why Mr. Holmes had such easy entrance to the place, choosing to instead remind herself that he held a position in the British government for which there was no official office—he was head of the secret-secret-secret organization of Secrets with an embellished capital 'S.' Of course he could have the access codes to a few _labs_. He reminded her, a little bit, of Agent Coulson—only a little less warm.

"Ah, Doctor Hooper, it is good to see you," Mycroft said with a smile which failed to reach the rest of his face. The short, mousy woman coming into the lab hardly startled and Pepper wondered if she was used to such intrusions into fairly secured place. The woman, Doctor Hooper, had wavy light brown hair as well as large, haunting brown eyes. Her mouth was small, her lips narrow, nothing a touch of lipstick wouldn't cure, and her nose was well formed and strong—Pepper felt a sudden pang of jealousy for that nose before reminding herself that hers was perfectly nice.

"My-croft, I didn't expect—I—"

"My colleague, Miss Potts, is here to meet my brother. Do you know if he will be showing up today?" At this the woman flinched just a little before straightening and crossing the lab to point at some equipment. Pointed at it, but didn't even touch it—Pepper understood intuitively the motions, because Tony _knew_ if she or anyone else had touched _anything_. There was typically hell to pay, which showed in Doctor Hooper's careful non-touching of the equipment.

"He has to check in on this experiment before the day is out or else start over, so I would imagine so. His doctor friend would be wholly unable to finish it for him." The woman ran out of steam, intimidated by Mycroft it seemed although there was a warmth to how she spoke of the man's brother. Pepper took a few steps towards her, extending her hand in greeting.

"I'm Pepper Potts, I work for Tony Stark. I'm here on business but got carried away by curiosity." Miss Hooper's thin mouth curved into a sharp smile—it was how her lips were formed that made it sharp, not her demeanor, Pepper decided—and took Pepper's hand.

"Molly Hooper, I'm a pathologist here at St. Bart's. Aside from Sherlock's flatmate, I suppose I kind of work for Sherlock when he's here—not that he needs much help, he just—"

"Molly, what possessed you to let my brother in here?" The confident woman who had just introduced herself disappeared into a waif at the sound of a man's deep voice. She retracted her hand from Pepper's almost immediately and turned to the speaker who had just popped in the door. He was the man with the dark, curly hair and the washed out gray eyes from the pictures in Mycroft's office, Sherlock Holmes. Pepper wondered what kind of person Mr. Holmes was if he was able to create such an effect in a woman brave enough to become a pathologist.

"Oh he was here when I arrived, nothing I could have done. He was just introducing Miss Potts here when you came in," Molly said quickly and softly, fiddling with a notebook and pen, not looking up at Sherlock Holmes. The dark haired man stared at her a little longer before lifting his eyes to Pepper. The look he gave her wasn't so much an undressing one but rather an un_making_ one. Tony gave her enough undressing glances for her to know the difference, and this man had anything but her underwear on his mind. She had the unsettling feeling that he suddenly knew what kind of toothpaste she used.

"I see. Well, I have to speak with Mycroft a moment, I will leave the two of you to finish your pleasantries. Molly, has everything been going well with my work?" He waited just long enough to get a quick nod out of the other woman before he ducked out of the lab with Mycroft hot on his heels. Molly didn't deflate after he left but rather returned to her real height and poise.

"So that is Mycroft's brother, then?"

"Yes," Molly said softly, a touch of a dreaminess to her tone as she looked at her notebook in earnest. Pepper found a stool and sat down several feet away from the brown haired woman, thinking. Thinking that in some ways they were the same—the women who didn't matter unless they did. Ready to do anything for a selfish and controlling man. She wasn't sure if her ability to say 'no' to Tony was a good thing or not, some days, but after meeting Molly Hooper she wondered what that 'no' looked like to others. Did she look like Molly when dealing with Tony? Was it as obvious to everyone else that she was in love with him as much as this woman was in love with Sherlock Holmes?

"You should tell him, you know," she said suddenly, startling the pathologist into nearly dropping her notes all over the floor. Molly took a deep breath and righted the few papers threatening to escape, squaring her shoulders and turning to face Pepper. They both knew what she'd meant, there was no need to air it out. _You should tell him you love him, that you're mad for him_. The things that Pepper knew she could never do with Tony, because of her job, because of _him_, maybe Molly Hooper could do with Sherlock Holmes.

"What do you suggest, Miss Potts? I've asked him for coffee, I've invited him to parties, and told him he's brilliant to his face. He's never so much as asked how I'm feeling after a short bout of flu, and only recently has he started thanking me for bringing him coffee like I'm some trained pet. Believe me, this is far easier."

"Easier is being terrified he'll find out and mock you for it? Easier is never getting over him and living alone? Please, you have the chance to actually have the man you love—the man I love, well, he just about physically can't love me back, he's far too interested in the next woman he can sleep wi—"

"And Sherlock isn't interested in having a go at _anyone, _Miss Potts! He is about as interested in sex as fish are with space! The problem isn't that he would cheat or be at risk of it, the problem is that the things I would want in a relationship he could never give me, would never even _think_ of giving me—there's no point, I've tried and tried for _years_ and have learned that I'm happier where I am. I still get to see him, and there isn't a hunted look in his eyes anymore when he catches sight of me. Once I stopped trying, I started to get to see him more, because I wasn't a threat."

"But…"

"There are no buts," Molly said, suddenly soft, withdrawing to her work once again. "The first time I met him, I knew he was the one for me. I could date other people, but the only one who might make me happy for the rest of my life would be him. That's why it's not so bad to live alone, because I'm not _missing_ anything. It's the same way it would be if I _did_ have him."

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	9. Chapter 9

**2010, Sherlock (II) and Mycroft (II) Holmes.**

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"What did you dredge up, Brother?"

"Shh, in a moment. Leave the door unlatched, open it just a little," Sherlock whispered, hunkering himself down next to the door which was left just slightly ajar on his orders. Sherlock suddenly wished he'd brought John with him. His brother stood over him, arms crossed and his face disapproving. Likely his brother thought that he was being childish. Listening in was cheating at deducing people, they both knew that from Mummy and Aaron's lessons in the subject. Useful for gaining information, but cheating. Sherlock ignored those reminders, choosing to focus on listening to the conversation which followed his departure from the room.

He knew that he was a poisonous presence in the lives of most people, and that the only ones who had so far proved any resistance to the toxins of his personality were John Watson and Molly Hooper. He, therefore, tried to ensure that he knew how much longer he had with them. If that meant listening at doors and hacking the occasional email account, so be it. Sherlock was not familiar with guilt, and it tasted worse to him than to others because of it—Molly understood him so thoroughly, and stayed near despite how he hurt her. Sherlock knew that John would classify a continuance of the situation as 'not good,' but Sherlock had few ideas on how to fix it.

With John he was already at his limit, there was simply nothing more to be redirected towards Molly as well. This did not, however, make the situation any more bearable or reasonable. There had to be a rational way in which he kept both John and Molly in exactly the way he had them now, or perhaps even closer. He might be able to tolerate being closer—at this rate he was going to lose them both, so why not try something impossible to achieve the improbable? Sherlock shook his head once, standing up and facing Mycroft finally. If he gave his brother his answer, then Mycroft might be more inclined not to interfere with his plan.

"The Woman had twins, one she left in America and the other she hid and gave to Albert's grandfather. The American boy took after his father, and that continued through the family line down to Tony Stark—Phineas took after The Woman, whose name is _Irene Adler_ oddly enough." Mycroft's eyebrow ticked upwards.

"Any relation to our Adler?"

"Didn't look it up, can't be bothered. A question, Mycroft—do you know if Mrs. Hudson is averse to cats?" Mycroft's eyebrows plunged down towards his eyes and his mouth thinned. Sherlock didn't waver, knowing that the person best able to read him in the entire world was his older brother. Maybe if he kept his two survivors close then he wouldn't lose them as everyone else in his family had lost those they loved. His father had lost Mummy—not that Sherlock lamented his father's absence from his life in the least—and Grandfather Albert had lost his mother and grandfather. Phineas had died terribly young as well. And then there was the other Sherlock Holmes. His namesake had lost The Woman, as well as his own Doctor Watson, a man who had loved him dearer than a brother but had been too afraid to pursue him—in his youth, Sherlock had found the good doctor's notes in a lockbox, pored through them twice and was satisfied that if the doctor had made one warm overture early on to the detective then history might well have gone very differently. Those overtures were received with a curious enthusiasm later in their lives, but Sherlock did wonder just would have happened if they'd come earlier. In the 1880s rather than the 1910s. Which brought him back to his own Doctor Watson.

Recently John had begun mentioning perhaps a more involved relationship with the incredibly tolerant Sarah Sawyer, hinting—terribly, Sherlock added silently—that maybe he would ask Sarah to move in with him. John was asking if it was alright to have someone else in the house, breathing and moving and living and blinking, when Sherlock needed the house a certain way to just think. Sherlock knew that John might perhaps leave him on account of Sarah Sawyer—Molly Hooper was a poor replacement for John, but perhaps could be taught some adventuring should John become suddenly matrimonially allergic to it.

Molly wouldn't be horrified by the experiments in the fridge, at the very least.

"Sherlock, surely—she will need far more from you than her cat needs from her. People are not pets, I thought you were doing so well learning this because of John Watson—Doctor Hooper is not to be treated like a generic brand cereal."

"One still needs cereal in the morning, Mycroft, despite the brand, but your worry is unfounded. If Molly is living with me, then John will not feel as though he has to leave me in order to have his Doctor Sawyer."

"Sherlock, your flat is not meant to house four people," Mycroft's voice was getting cross, angry that Sherlock was missing some part of the equation. Sherlock took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders so that his spine slid into place so that he looked as tall as possible. His brother's glare did not alleviate itself, so Sherlock stared down his nose at his older brother.

"It barely sees any use, and you know it. John is often at work, and I rarely touch anything in it unless physically forced or for one of my experiments. Two women, who both work, would not be so great a burden on it. Besides, two more people to help John do the dishes he creates because you know very well that I rarely eat there. Now, do take yourself and your increasingly annoying habit of butting in on my affairs and see it back to your office. I will take care of this myself, and you will not be kidnapping Molly to threaten her as you did John." He turned away at this and stalked back into the lab where the woman from America and Molly were chatting lightly. There was a tension in Molly's shoulders that told how much the woman's words had affected the pathologist. The woman had opened the septic wound in Molly's heart where his pathologist kept him and the American had rubbed salt in it to try and cleanse the injury. Well meaning, and destructive.

Sherlock frowned, deeply disliking the fact that someone had tried to interfere with Molly and her life—deeply disliking that someone had forced her to bare her soul, because if Sherlock hated one thing in the world it was the awful way in which people refused to _look_ at another person and _understand_. He hated the fact that people were socially coerced to verbally relive their shames and sorrows, that expressing their joy was not enough. Sherlock thought often of the adage—some cultures have a hundred words for snow or blue or bunny rabbits or whatever made them sick up kittens and rainbows—and applied it to his own lexicon of deductions. He could see, from a hundred paces, heartbreak and depression. From fifty he could also see worry, apathy, and alcoholism among many other things. From twenty five he could deduce the causes of the depression and the alcoholism, and from ten paces he could see the emotional source of all these afflictions.

There was no point, to him, of asking someone why they were unhappy when he already _knew_. He had been reliably informed that he didn't have a heart, but _something_ in him understood pain and the not-goodness of bringing it on other people. He would rather comment on their joy than their sorrow, unless he was horribly, _horribly_ bored and uncomfortable. He had once brought pain on Molly Hooper, and she had been good enough to forgive him for it. He tried to be good enough for her to forgive, because he only had her, and John, and barely Mycroft. Sherlock couldn't be picky.

"Molly, would you come over here for a tick?" He made sure to use his best "Only for Molly Smile," as he said it, striding across the lab to his experiment—one on blood toxins, a fascinating subject he just could never get enough of. As for his smile, he made sure that he never used Molly's smiles for anyone but Molly—they were already flimsy enough that he didn't need to have her completely disbelieve them. Especially not now, with his new project in mind.

As she turned, a little puzzled—he never asked for help—but willing, Sherlock looked to his experiment, to find the excuse of needing her help. Ah, the transfers to the sterile containers so he could analyze the results later. It would go much quicker with four hands than just two. His brother slipped into the room behind him, speaking pleasantly to the American woman behind them—_he plays at being a scientist, his real talents lay in reading people, as though you would read a book, Miss Potts. Now, about that rather striking resemblance you noticed earlier—_Sherlock indicated to Molly what he needed her help with.

He would not ask her today, he decided, because she would realize he had been eavesdropping on her and realize that he was both taking pity on her as well as possessing an ulterior motive. Perhaps he would lure her in by offering up a relationship, if only she would move in—and never leave. Or maybe he should cajole her into moving into the basement apartment, a cool place for her cat in the summers and only Mrs. Hudson above her to make noise. But no, that still left John room to escape him—and he would not fall victim to that as his Victorian predecessor had, of losing his Watson and his anchor in the same fell phrase _I Do_.

Molly was biting her lip and looking at him out of the corner of her eye as she worked. She was precise, something which Sherlock valued highly, despite that they were close enough to elbow one another. He wasn't bothered, but he knew that Molly was sometimes only moments away from dropping things when he paid her too much attention. This could work, he assured himself, working just as precisely as the pathologist next to him. He would keep John, and he would keep Molly, and he would deal with Sarah. This could be, in fact, one of his greatest experiments ever.

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	10. Chapter 10

**2010, Tony Stark and Sherlock Holmes (II)**

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There were no such things as unknown callers in Tony's world. No one got into his private lines without him knowing who they were, where they were, and probably why they were calling. He didn't like to be handed things, and he didn't like to answer phone calls that he was unprepared for. It was why Pepper was so wonderful, because she didn't mind things like that. It was just fantastic.

So there was more than a little alarm when Butterfingers dropped his phone into the middle of his workspace, startling him into nearly dropping the very delicate superchip he was trying to embed into one of Pepper's shoes. The chip would make sure that Jarvis would always know where she was, which was a good thing. Because that meant that _Tony_ would always know where she was. It was a good plan, and Butterfingers—and whoever had _texted_ him—had nearly ruined it. The message was from a blocked phone number—something quite remarkable, given Tony's thorough coding of his phone a few months ago to _prevent_ stuff like this happening.

_I am Sherlock Holmes, and apparently one of your last living relatives. I have a brother, Mycroft, who is nosy. We have a father we don't speak to and a mother we dote on. Neither of us participate in Christmas, birthdays, national holidays, or graduations. I am a consulting detective. Should you ever need my assistance, I prefer to text. I have no specific desire to ever meet you face to face and this is likely our last communique._

_SH_

What the living hell. He stared at the message, reading it again a few times, trying to piece together just what he'd been informed of. And why he was informed of it. Petting Butterfingers absently, Tony pushed away from the workspace and went to his computer, quickly tracing the blocked number and thinking. To hell with a text message, "Sherlock Holmes" was going to hear from him whether he liked it or not. It took a few moments, but the British government's encoding system was abysmally easy to crack—although not quite so easy as the NSA, but that was another story entirely. Soon he had all the information he needed.

"Jarvis, I need to suit up. We're going to take Pepper out for dinner."

"Sir, Miss Potts is in the United Kingdom closing the deal with our contact there. Surely you remember?"

"That I do, which is why I need you to find us a nice place to go out for dinner—I'm thinking curry. They eat curry there, Jarvis?"

"Among many other things, yes, Sir."

"Good. There's a little invite list on my computer, please send it to the numbers I've got listed there. Now, suit."

"May I enquire as to the reason for this sudden trip abroad?" Jarvis asked as Tony stood still for the robots to encase the suit around him. He checked his latest palladium reading and decided this trip was worth it—he would catch a ride back on the plane with Pepper.

"Oh, got a little family reunion planned for tonight, the usual. Bye Jarvis."

The earpiece snapped on just quick enough to catch Jarvis' sigh and muttered, "_I'm coming with you, you remember."_

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